


They Lust With Cheeks Unturned

by Synekdokee



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Emotional Dysfunction, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sort of Dub-con, bit of internalised homophobia, they're both into it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 03:59:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14347539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: Takes place between being kidnapped by John's men and the scene where you wake up tied to a chair in a room with deputy Hudson.





	They Lust With Cheeks Unturned

He has no respect for John Seed. 

He may be a rookie, but he knows John’s type. He saw them in the service, and he saw them in the law enforcement ranks. The hypocrites who hide behind some greater cause and bury their own vicious greed under a veneer of piety. John’s faith is gaudy and transparent, a tool for him to use to dress up his own sins as virtues.

The other siblings he understands; Jacob’s insanity hits too close for comfort, that iron-fisted discipline almost comforting in this hell-hole of a county. It reminds Rook of his military days, of his own state of mind when he returned from his last tour. Oh, Jacob he gets. A little too well, perhaps. 

Faith’s delusions and projected fragility put his teeth on edge, but he doesn’t need a psych degree to see that her head is veiled with abandonment issues like cobwebs, sticky and clingy as she flip-flops between reality and whatever Heaven Joseph Seed has peddled her. 

Joseph Seed is above his paygrade, but Rook fears him, and he’s not above admitting that. Joseph reminds him of a rabid wolf, and he doesn’t want to spend too much time trying to analyse insanity like that – the best thing for everyone involved is to put it out of its misery. 

He’s seen the fear the Peggies have for John, and he knows there’s nothing godly about him. Just pain and death and a very weak grasp of his self-control.

 

He’s groggy from whatever drug the cultists dosed him with. Two men drag him up to his feet, throw him against a table, and then leave him alone with John. He’s not too out of it that he can’t give the nutjob his angriest glare as he pulls himself up, leaning against the edge of the table. John gives him a serene smile that’s offset by the cold of his blue eyes. He raises his hands in a welcoming greeting, and says, his thin voice low and mocking -

”Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.”

Rook resists the urge to spit, his wrists twisting against the ties behind his back. 

”Still you reject God,” John says, voice disapproving, shaking his head mournfully, and the sheer farce of it makes Rook’s blood boil. 

_What do you know about me and God_ , he wants to say. The disappointed look of the priest from their small home town church flashes through his mind, and perhaps something shows in his eyes, because John’s face takes on a distinctly un-piously smug look. 

”You have to let go of that anger, deputy,” he says, voice so gentle and sweet, stretching the syllables in ”deputy” until Rook wants to punch him. ”Or the wrath will consume you.” 

John steps towards him, tugging down his vest and smoothing his hands down his breast, the calmness he projects belied by how measured it looks. Rook wonders how close to snapping John is at any time, remembers the water flooding into his mouth when he was held down in the river for a little too long. He wonders which John has less of – faith or control.

”I told you we’d come for you,” John says, and reaches out like one would to a beaten dog. The tips of his fingers brush against Rook’s chin, tipping his face, forcing him to meet John’s eye. ”All I want for you to do is confess.” His words trail into a sibilant s like the tail of a snake, the red tip of his tongue flicking out to lick his lower lip. ”Confess to your sins, accept the baptism I have given you. Let go of the wants and desires, and let God give you what you _deserve_. Say Yes...”

Close, he’s so close, crowding Rook against the table, the sharp edge of the metal digging into his flesh. He can feel the warmth of John’s breath on his cheek, and John must feel his on the exposed skin of his breast, and Rook hopes it stings the bloody letters peeking under his shirt. 

John’s thigh brushes against his, making the pit of Rook’s belly tighten. He’s reminded of something Sharky had said, and he smothers the hysterical laught that threatens to bubble out. 

_Man, that John really does have a hard-on for you._

Something snaps in him then. He’s about to die anyway, maybe there’s a win to take out of this all. He broadens his stance, legs spread, and leans back a little, canting his hips forward. John’s gaze flickers down, and Rook can’t contain the vicious curve of his mouth. He doesn’t say a word, but when John looks back up again, it must be plain and mocking on Rook’s face. 

_I know._

Rage flares in John’s eyes, and there’s nothing Rook can do when he kicks the table back from under his precariously balanced body. He curves his back and rolls to avoid cracking his head against the floor, but before he can scramble back up, John is on him, straddling him, pinning him to the ground with a sharp knife to his throat. 

”Wrath, pride, or lust?” John hisses, the tip of the knife pressing into Rook’s collar, waiting. John’s pupils are small and cheeks ruddy, hand trembling with barely contained anger. But it’s hard to fear someone you have no respect for. ”Choose or I’ll choose for you,” John roars, voice cracking. Rook keeps his mouth shut, meets John’s gaze steadily, challenging. John reveals his cards so easily, has none of the manipulative finess of his siblings. Rook bites down against a grin and bucks his hips up to meet John’s, and sees the slight widening of John’s eyes.

Rook imagines he can practically hear something crack inside John, and as John raises the knife he has a fleeting moment to wonder how much a blade to the heart will hurt. 

And then John’s face shutters, the anger folded away somewhere. He slips the knife back into the pocked of his fitted jeans, seems put himself together. Only the wild look in his eyes let Rook know how shaken he is. 

John rises to his feet, standing over him, looming. Rook lets himself look, eyes tracing the long lines of John’s legs, the denim folding across his crotch, the slim waist and chest hugged by the tailored vest. The skin bared by the vee of his unbuttoned shirt is shiny with sweat that’s not from the cold damp of the bunker.

Rook’s eyes linger in an obvious way, and why not. He’s fucked and been fucked by worse looking men than John Seed, but John is the first one he wants nothing from. Just to fuck with him until one of them gets a bullet in the head. If it means he gets to get off too, even better. He’s made peace with his own ”wants and desires” a long time ago, solidified in his convictions when he was kicked out of the congregation. He has no need to hide behind God, he’s not ashamed, and John must see that, judging by the fury trembling through his body now. 

”You’ve been sent here to test us,” John murmurs quietly, and Rook isn’t sure if he’s truly even addressing him. ”This is my test, my task… I can cleanse you of this, yes, I can prove to you that God loves you despite your lust, despite your... perversions.” His shaking hands stray to his belt, and it’s not the suggestive motion of it that suddenly makes Rook question the sanity of this idea, but the strangely blank look in John’s eyes. 

The large silver buckle clinks as it falls free, the rasp of the zipper loud in the quiet room. Suddenly John leans down and pulls Rook up by his collar until he’s sitting, drags him until he’s propped against the wall, caught between it and John’s hips. 

”I can make you see what’s right,” John murmurs, his hand brushing over Rook’s hair in an almost paternal manner.

He meets John’s calm gaze with a defiant look of his own. John can dress this up how he wants, but they both know who’s saying Yes here. A fact which seems to sink in for John, his hand stilling on the waist of his jeans, a sudden lost, hesitant look coming over him. It only lasts a second, and some detached part in Rook wants to laugh at how easily John casts aside his religion when it gets in the way of what he wants. If there’s one thing he hates as much as religious fanatics, it’s hypocrites. 

The unkind smile is wiped off his face when John shoves his jeans down to mid thigh and grabs Rook’s hair in a tight grip. His cock is only half-hard, and he takes it in his own hand to give it a few quick strokes before he guides it to Rook’s lips. The flushed tip nudges Rook’s bottom lip, smearing precome. The contact seems to make John shiver, and the checked-out look in his eyes evaporates, replaced by something heated.

Rook keeps his mouth closed, though he has to bite down on the desire to let his tongue dart out to wet his lip. He looks at John under his brows, the corner of his mouth tilted up with detached amusement. John will have to ask him for it. Ask him for it, or back down. 

John lets go of his cock (and it’s hard now, and isn’t that something?) and draws out the knife again, pressing it flush against Rook’s jugular. ”You take what I give you, and you’ll thank me for it,” he growls, face pale with anger. All pretense of this being for God, of this being anything but John Seed losing his damn control is gone. Rook keeps his teeth clenched, even though he has to close his eyes as the blade sinks into his skin. But John’s greed overrides his need to remain in control. He throws the knife to the side and slams Rook’s head against the wall, and then slaps him. 

”You’re dumber than I thought you were if you think there’s a version of this scenario where you come out on top,” he shouts, voice trembling with anger. He jabs his thumb against the hinge in Rook’s jaw, trying to force him to open up. And isn’t that as good as asking, this desperation, this refusal to just end this with a severed artery and a discarded corpse? 

Rook huffs out something that sounds like a laugh, and parts his lips. 

John slides his cock into his mouth with a muttered ”fuck,” and Rook lets him in, his tongue flat and throat relaxed. His own cock twitches at the choked gasp escaping John’s lips, the tightening of the punishing grip in his hair. There’s no finess to this; John sets up a quick pace, rutting into his mouth as though it’ll be easier to pretend this never happened if it’s over fast. Rook watches John’s face, sees the absolute abandon there that he’s only ever seen on junkies getting their first fix after withdrawal. 

John stares down at Rook, his eyes a little manic, watching his cock slide between Rook’s swollen lips. The weight of it on Rook’s tongue sends a throb of arousal to his own cock, neglected between his spread legs. The ache of it makes him falter, and the moment of distraction causes his teeth to scrape over the shaft and he expects a slap that never comes. Instead the response he gets opens up a whole new page in the mental folder he keeps of the Seed siblings. John slams his hand against the wall as he cries out and bucks his hips with a full-body shudder. He sinks in a little too deep, Rook’s nose suddenly buried against the soft skin of his abdomen, making him want to choke. He closes his eyes, spit dripping down his chin, his own arousal pulsing through him. _John Seed likes pain_ , apparently receiving as much as inflicting, and Rook has worlds of it to give. He wants to sink his fists into the wiry muscle, wants to see split skin and blood flowing. He might even fuck John when he’s finished with him, if he asks nicely. 

He wants to touch himself but his hands are still trapped behind his back, skin scraping against the concrete wall he’s pressed up against. He breathes through his nose until the grip on his hair eases a little, and starts to bob his head, tongue rubbing the base of John’s cock, letting his teeth touch the sensitive skin now and then. It’s only when he hears a soft murmur from above that he looks up again.

John’s head is tilted back, eyes closed, lips moving as he chants, over and over;

"I baptize you with water, but he who is mightier than I is coming. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire. I baptize you with water, but he who is mightier than I is coming...”

A shiver runs through Rook as he realises just how close John is to losing it, clinging to the fragile reeds of faith to clear his conscience of this. He’d pity him, if he didn’t hate him. 

John comes without a warning, taking a step forward so that Rook can’t pull away when John empties himself down his throat with a grunt. Most of the come spills from the corners of Rook’s mouth as he chokes, struggling to breathe. He whines softly when John pulls back a little, his softening cock slipping out, leaving the taste of salty come and cheap soap lingering on Rook’s tongue.

The silence that follows reminds Rook of the lull after combat, oppressive and heavy. They stare at each other, Rook’s chin wet with spit and come, his cock tenting the front of his pants, begging for some friction. John’s face is red, his eyes blown, expression blank. His cock hangs out of the gap of his flies, slick with Rook’s saliva.

John blinks, and for a moment Rook thinks he looks at him with something that could be a plea, the colour of his widened eyes so bright they look like glass. Then John turns his back to Rook, tucking himself away, smoothing down his clothes. His shoulders heave with the deep breath he takes, and when he turns back to face Rook, the mask of saccharine kindness and religious conviction is back. 

Out of his back pocket he draws a syringe. He leans down, sinking it into Rook’s neck. 

”We know that God does not hear sinners; but if anyone is God-fearing and does His will, He hears him,” John tells him, voice deceptively soothing and nurturing as darkness begins to surround Rook’s vision, framing the earnest blue of John’s wide eyes.

”All you have to do is say Yes.”


End file.
